You Wreck Me
by Enlee
Summary: Wilson is driving House to the funeral...House/Wilson slash. Last Chapter is now up. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Let's begin again…begin the begin…Um, sorry about that. This here is a House/Wilson soon-to-be slash that has nothing to do with my other H/W stories. Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

I wasn't supposed to care anymore, and for a while I didn't. I was going to walk away from him, never lay eyes on him again. We weren't friends anymore, we never were. When I said those words and left him standing in my empty office that was going to be the end of it. I was going get a new job, get new friends, and move on with my new life. A new life free from all the headaches, pain, misery, and seemingly endless neediness of Gregory House. It would be a weight off my shoulders. I never needed his so-called friendship to begin with. After all, we were never friends. Goodbye, House. I hate your guts and never want to see you again.

Like hell.

His mother got my new number and called me, begging me to drag her son's sorry ass to his father's funeral. I always liked Blythe House. I could never say no to her and she damn well knew it. Seems like House did pick up a few things from his mother after all. Too bad it wasn't tact and the ability to keep his mouth shut. I should have said no. That's what I should have done. I should have said that I wouldn't be able to make him go somewhere he didn't want to and hung up. But when did I ever do what I should have done when it came to House? And how could I turn down the desperate request of a woman who had just lost her husband of half a century?

I shouldn't have picked up the damn phone at all.

One little phone call changed everything. Just like before. Funny how these things work out.

* * *

"I'm not doing this because I care," I said after he woke up and realized where he was and where we were going.

Drugging him was my idea. There was no other way to get him into car, and neither Cuddy or I were keen on forcing him at gunpoint or something else that might end up hurting his leg. It was also my idea to have Cuddy drug him. I didn't want to see me, at least not then and not in the hospital. He would have gone ballistic, and he would have also suspected that something was up--that I was only there because I wanted something from him. And he would have been right, as usual. Thankfully his new thought-to-be-SARS-patient provided the perfect excuse for Cuddy to waltz into his office and give him an injection. She told me that he didn't even question it as me and a rather hulking and strong male nurse carried House to the car.

"You don't?" House croaked.

He was still a bit groggy and rubbed his eyes. He'd been out for at least two hours and I had driven at least a hundred miles. No turning back now. From the corner of my eye I thought I could see a ghost of a smile on his face.

"No," I answered, still staring straight ahead.

"My mom didn't call Cuddy, she called _you_."

"She did." No reason to lie. I kept my eyes on the road.

"You drugged me." Strangely he sounded more amused than angry.

"Cuddy drugged you."

"That's right. You don't care enough to drug me," he muttered, looking out the window at the farms and cows we were driving by.

"Your mom cares," I said pointedly. "She wants you there. It's the least you can do…for her if not for anyone else. You do care about your mother, right?"

"Yes."

"So go to the funeral. Make your mom happy. Be the good son for once."

"I don't want to be there."

"Why?"

"I hate him. He's a bastard. Now he's a dead bastard and my feelings haven't changed." He patted his pockets, looking alarmed. "Where the hell is my Vicodin?"

"I've got it."

"Ooohhh…I see," he smirked. "My leash. Making me sit and beg like a good little doggy. Is that what the nice Mrs. House told you to do in order to get me to say goodbye, Daddy, I'll see you in hell? Give it here. My leg hurts."

I took the bottle from my inside jacket pocket and handed him a pill. He looked at me like I had just told him we were on our way to join the circus as the new trapeze act.

"Just one?" he gaped.

"For now."

He dry-swallowed the pill and said, "You're choking me with that leash. Making sure I don't run away. I can't run, you know. Did you forget that while you were busy forging your fabulous new life without me? So how's it going? Are you done with the whole woe-is-me act yet? Have a new best friend yet? Do you have to beat back all the pretty ladies with a stick?"

I ignored his last few remarks and said, "I promised your mother I would get you to the funeral. That's all I'm doing."

"That's quite a promise for someone else's mother, especially when said promise involves being trapped in a car with me for hours on end. How much is she paying you?"

"She's not paying me anything."

"_Sure_," he snorted. "You're transporting the person you hate most in the world to the funeral of the person he hates the most in the world. All for one lousy promise to a mother who isn't yours. And this all seems logical to you?"

"I promised your mother."

"You do know promises were made to broken."

"Not this one."

"We'll see about that. Pull over, I need to pee."

Keeping my foot squarely on the gas pedal, I reached between the seats and pulled out a plastic bottle. "Here."

The bottle received a cursory glance from him before being unceremoniously tossed into the back seat. "No, thanks. I'd rather go on the floor."

His hands went to his belt buckle, but then something caught his eye. "You bought used floor mats?" House asked incredulously, reaching for the floor. Soon the mat dangled from his hand like a dead fish.

I didn't answer.

He chuckled, then rolled down the window and tossed out the mat. Not that he wouldn't have done the same thing if the mats had come straight from the factory five minutes before I poured him into the car.

"Hope you have some paper towels," he said, undoing his zipper.

"Hold it!" I held up a hand in surrender. "There's a rest stop about five miles down the road, all right?"

"Fine with me." He zipped his jeans back up, sat back and resumed staring out the window.

I should have made Cuddy give him a double dose.


	2. Chapter 2

House was basically being dragged kicking and screaming to his father's funeral. I knew he hated his father, but I would at least think he would show up for his mother's sake. But then again, we are talking about House here. He'd be in his office with his feet on the desk and playing with is Gameboy if Cuddy and I hadn't all but kidnapped him.

Case in point, he knocked the car keys out of my hand and watched nonchalantly as they fell into a grate. While I was fuming he limped by me to find the bathrooms.

I was still fishing for them with a straightened-out hanger when he came back with soda in hand and sat on the curb to watch.

"Don't you have a spare set?" he asked blithely, barely trying to conceal his glee.

"Not with me," I answered, knowing the raw irritation in my voice wouldn't get through to him, but at least he would hear it. "It's not just my car keys…my house keys and the key to my office are on there. Plus Amber gave me that keychain."

"Not hardly," House snorted. "Not unless your pet name for her was 'Volvo'. Or was that her pet name for you?"

I glared at him. "I am getting you to that funeral."

"Not without something to start your car." He opened up his Pepsi and took a gulp. "Give it up, the keys are gone. Just call a cab and lets go home."

"I don't think so." I passed him a flashlight. "Here, hold this."

He took it and let it roll out of his hand and into the grate, then took another gulp of soda.

"You are going to that funeral," I said, walking back to my car, thankful that I had been smart enough to carry more than one flashlight.

"Only if you're going, too," he said with a gloating sneer. "Right now I don't see either of us going anywhere."

"We'll see about that."

I lowered the hanger back into the grate. The accumulated garbage stunk beyond words; the damn thing probably hadn't been cleaned out since Reagan was elected the first time. But I could see something glittering down there. It had to be my keys. I moved the hanger towards the glittering something. A familiar jingle, then a pull of extra weight. The hanger came back out with my keys hanging in the hook. They were dirty and stunk, but they were back and I wasn't letting him anywhere near them ever again.

I looked up to see him frowning. I couldn't help but smirk at that.

"Let's go," I said, with more than a little triumph dripping from my words.

* * *

"You're not going through all this trouble just for my mother's sake," House remarked after ten solid minutes of silence. He wasn't even unconcious during those ten minutes. That must have been some kind of record.

I didn't reply. I didn't want to fight another losing battle so I pretended to be engrossed in my driving.

"You have a right to walk away from me," he went on, "but you're not exercising that right. You say you don't care, but we both know that's a lie. So far it seems all your effort to stay away from me has been for naught."

"If you say so," I muttered.

The truth was I was glad to see him doing well, at least as well as a half-crazy drug addict could be expected to do. No overdoses or run-ins with a certain blowhard cop to report. Life goes on. He was getting along just fine without me, and I was doing fine without him. Of course, that didn't mean either of us liked it that way. I didn't have to tell him that. He already knew and was about to fling it in my face.

"Will you be walking away again when this is all over?" House asked. "Will you go back to hating me again?"

"I don't hate you."

"I see. So you turned your back on me in your office because that's what friends do for each other." He slurped down the rest of his soda, crushed the can and mindlessly tossed it into the backseat. It hit the plastic bottle with a dull thunk.

"I was upset, that's all."

"So upset you quit your job, walked out on me, and wouldn't talk to me for weeks. Even though what happened to Cutthroat Bitch wasn't my fault."

"Her name is Amber," I seethed.

"Her name _was_ Amber," he shot back. "Are you through taking out your anger over her untimely death on me?"

"I was upset."

"So you've said. Are you still upset?"

"I've…I've…," I sputtered, not quite sure how to word it. "I've accepted the fact that Amber is dead."

"Good for you," he said, strangely sounding like he meant it.

"And I know I said and did some things that I shouldn't have."

"Like what?"

I looked over to see him watching me intently. He was waiting for my answer.

"We'll talk about it later," I said, turning back to the road.

"I suppose you'll tell me why you're really dragging me to this funeral, too."

"We'll talk about it later."

"Sure," he said, then jammed his cane onto the gas pedal.

"What are you doing!" I cried, trying to keep the car on the road. The cane remained on the gas and I couldn't push the damn thing off and steer at the same time, so I chose to just steer and hope for the best.

Then I saw the cop car we roared past at about 80 miles on hour.

Yes, we did get pulled over. No need to ask.


	3. Chapter 3

"You told me you took care of this," I said to House as we sat handcuffed to a bench in a police station. "Those were the first words you ever said to me."

"I took care of it," he insisted. "They obviously screwed up somehow."

"Isn't there a statute of limitations on this kind of thing?" I asked the glowering cop sitting at the desk across from us. "It's a really old warrant."

House chose that moment to speak up: "It's suspended when you flee the state."

The cop looked up, somehow looking more peeved than he already was when he dragged us in there. I sincerely hoped he wasn't the kind of cop who would hold us as long as humanly possible just because he could.

"Look," I began, "I _left_ the state, I didn't _flee_ the state. I left the state because I got a job that wasn't in Louisiana. There's a simple explanation for all this. Really, just hear me out. There was a medical convention in New Orleans and--"

"Vandalism, assault, destruction of property…that's what it says here," the cop broke in, getting up and walking over to the coffee machine. "You don't need to explain to me."

"You don't need to explain to him, Wilson," House chimed in. "You heard the man."

"I am not going to sit here wasting time just so you can get out of your father's funeral," I declared loud enough for the entire station house to hear.

That got the cop's attention. He turned around and gave us a look that told us he wanted nothing more than to hear what we had to say.

"He's my father," House said. "I have every right to avoid his funeral."

"Not if your mother is still alive," the cop scolded House, as if it were a law that couldn't be broken under any circumstances. He sat down on the edge of his desk. "Alright, explain it."

So we did. I told him how I was at the bar having a drink when this guy kept playing Billy Joel's "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" on the jukebox. I asked the guy to stop and when he didn't I threw a bottle into the bar's mirror. It got my message across and smashed a ten-foot antique mirror. Other patrons began to throw shot glasses, and somehow I wound up with an assault charge that was totally bogus. House, who was bored and somehow decided my destruction of property made me all the more interesting, bailed me out. The foundation of our entire friendship. All because I lost my temper. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

The phone on the desk rang. The cop answered it, listened briefly, then uncuffed us from the bench. Louisiana wasn't interested in me anymore so he let us go. I thanked him profusely while dragging House back to the car before he got us arrested all over again.

* * *

"To pay my respects implies that I had respect for him to begin with," House began after we got back on the road. "He didn't deserve a single ounce of respect from me."

"So you've said. But you do have respect for your mom." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I do," he replied with the genuine sincerity he reserved only for her.

"So why can't you do this one thing for her? Why are you so against this?"

"I don't want to give a eulogy for someone I don't care about. I shouldn't have to. Dad and I barely spoke over the last few years and I don't really have anything to say about him now."

"So lie," I suggested, keeping an eye out for the exit. "Say something nice and make your mom happy."

"Can't do that. She has that built-in mother radar that lets her know when I'm lying."

"Then don't say anything at all."

"I can't. I've never been able to say no to my mom."

"I guess you're delivering a eulogy. Can't wait to hear it."

"Me neither," he muttered, almost to himself. "For someone who doesn't care, you're awfully…what's the word I'm looking for…_involved_. Being rather friendly with a guy who isn't your friend anymore. I knew you wouldn't be able stay away from me."

I gave him a curious glance and said, "I knew you'd make this about you."

"This is about me. Since you barely knew my father and you're only casually acquainted with my mother, that leaves me. You can go ahead and say it…you missed me. I won't hold it against you, at least not until after the funeral."

"I'm not saying anything," I told him, hitting my turn signal and slowing down for the exit.

"So you're saying that you're not saying anything?"

"Pretty much."

"So you're not denying it," he said with his patented shit-eating grin. "How interesting."

"Stop putting words in my mouth," I said, stopping at a red light.

"That's the only way to put them there if you're not going to say anything," House went on.

"Stop twisting the words I've already said."

"I can't twist something that's not there. You need to wake up and smell the embalming fluid."

"That's a rather unpleasant image, House."

"You wouldn't have it any other way. Now go ahead and tell me why you really agreed to this little road trip."

"I made a promise to your mother, not to you."

"Like hell you did. Can't see the forest for the trees, Wilson?"

"What forest would that be?"

He leaned over until our shoulders were touching and said, "Here we are, the two of us, on a trip. We're talking to each other, about each other, and we're getting brought in by the police and set free. Sound familiar? Just like old times. Everything old is new again. Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, doesn't it? The only thing missing is a broken antique mirror."


	4. Chapter 4

"Face it, Magellan, you're lost," House said. "Just turn around and lets go home."

"I'm not lost," I insisted. Well maybe not utterly and completely lost. Just a wrong turn somewhere. I knew I was in the right area. Now all I had to do was find the funeral home, drag him in there and get the damn thing over with.

"The funeral is probably over by now."

"No, it isn't. Your mom isn't going to start without you."

"You sure about that?"

"Are _you_ sure about that?" I glared at him. He got the message and looked out the window. Well-kept homes with emerald green lawns, kids on skateboards and happy dogs dragging their even happier owners behind them were on the other side of the glass.

"That's the second time we passed that courthouse," he said.

"What courthouse? I didn't see one," I replied, squinting in the late afternoon sun while trying to read a street sign.

"The one with the cross burning out front."

"There is no cross, there is no courthouse, and I am _not_ turning around."

"Why?" he snapped, turning back to face me. "Why is this so important to you?"

"I already told you."

"No, you told me _something_, but it wasn't necessarily the truth. Just what are you getting out of this, Wilson?"

"I'm getting you where you should be," I answered, pulling up the front gate of the funeral home. "Here we are."

He looked out his window again, seeing all the people milling about the front door. Everyone was dressed in their somber best, and more than one was in full dress uniform. It was as if he couldn't tell whether all those people were there because John House had touched their lives in some way, or if they were there out of common courtesy. House suddenly looked rather somber himself, as if he realized that everyone was there because John House had died. I found myself feeling a bit sorry for him then and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Pull the car around," he muttered, shrugging away from my touch. "Let's get this over with."

I couldn't have said it better myself, I thought while trying to find a parking space.

* * *

"You turned your father's death, a moment of real human grief, into a farce." After the so-called eulogy in which House pretty much vomited all his pent-up hate he had towards his father onto the unsuspecting audience, we had moved away from the crowd into an empty parlor, where a little old lady in a coffin and lots of booze were on display. A stained glass window gave the room a soft rose-colored glow, letting us know that the last of the daylight was slipping behind the horizon. "Why am I even pretending to be surprised?"

"Cut the crap, Wilson," he said, leaning on his cane. "Admit it, you like what I do. I never had to force you to do come with me. You like coming along for the ride because you have fun."

"Oh, right." I threw up my hands in frustration. "As you can see I'm cheering you on."

"This isn't about you cheering me on. This is about you being prepared for the worst." He sounded like a teacher correcting a slow-to-catch-on student. "So you became an oncologist. Fair enough. You're there to see your steady stream of patients through their recovery or to their sad, bitter end. You're there to hold their hand and say you're sorry. You're there so they know that at least one person in the world cares. But Amber…she was so young and healthy and pretty. There was no way to prepare for that."

"Don't bring Amber into this."

"Her death was a blow to you," he went on as if I hadn't said anything. "Let's face it, it came out of nowhere. It made you sad and very angry. Life sucks. So now you're scared to death of it happening all over again. You're scared to death of losing another person who means something to you, so you dump the person who matters the most to you."

"I'm not scared to death of anything," I declared, though it didn't sound as grand as I hoped it would. "I'm moving forward with my life!"

"Of course," he sneered, "because it's impossible to take away something you don't have!"

"Right!" I snorted. "It's all about you, isn't it, House? Amber's death is about _you_. You're father's death is about _you_. No wonder everyone is lining up to be your friend."

"So admit it."

"Admit what?" I asked. He was all but standing over me. The last of the daylight and the low light in the parlor made his eyes appear several shades darker. He was so close I could feel his heat radiating off him. He was invading my personal space and yet I didn't seem to mind. Partly because everything he was saying so far was more or less the truth and because for the most part I had enjoyed his company on this strange, annoying, improvised road trip, even if he did drive me up the wall and back down again.

"Admit that you're afraid of losing me."

"I am not afraid--"

"Admit it."

"I've lost people before--"

"Admit it!"

"--it happens--"

"Admit it! Admit it!"

"What are you, five? Stop repeating yourself."

"Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! C'mon on, admit it!"

I was too frustrated by his non-stop badgering to admit the sky was blue, much less admit that I was scared of losing him. I wasn't ready to give him the satisfaction, not yet. So I did the only thing I could do, I grabbed a bottle of liquor and hurled it at the stained glass window. It shattered spectacularly, letting in a dusky orange glow. All I could do was stand there and gape at the property damage I had just caused. Visions of being arrested by the same scowling cop ran through my head. He'd pay to ship me off to Louisiana himself.

Somewhere to my left, House said, "Still not boring."

No, he wasn't. He never could be.


	5. Chapter 5

After writing a big fat check for the funeral home to cover the rather ridiculous cost of the window I had so gloriously smashed, we were back on the road. House and I talked about this and that, various patients, movies we had seen, stuff we had been up to since I had left the hospital. We talked to each other. We had an honest conversation. And I enjoyed it. House seemed a bit distracted--not that I could blame him--but I knew he enjoyed my company as well. He was right again--the bastard. Everything old is new again. It was just like old times. The new life I had carved out for myself didn't really exist. I was trying to hold on to something that wasn't there. Amber would kick my ass into next week if she could see what I have become. Halfway home I knew I couldn't go back to my other job. I wasn't going to walk away from him or my real life a second time.

I dropped him off outside Princeton Plainsboro. House went to see his underlings. I circled the parking lot until I found a space, then went to see Cuddy.

An hour later I found him in his office. He was staring out the window, not seeing anything that was actually there, and working on a glass of bourbon.

"Something wrong?" I asked, nodding at the booze. He didn't bring out the booze at work unless something was bothering him. The itch that can only be scratched with a good stiff drink.

"Nothing at all. I'm celebrating," he said, though his low and rough tone of voice told me that was the last thing he was doing. "My mom hated him too, you know."

"Celebrations aren't supposed to be so depressing," I pointed out, noting his deep frown and red-rimmed eyes. "Why are you so depressed?"

"I'm not depressed. My dad is dead, and in the end it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. I still hate him, Mom still hates him, and the world will go on as usual. That's what depresses me. Here's to dead bastards everywhere." He lifted the glass to his lips and took another sip.

"Well, people don't get to choose their parents," I said. "I'm not even sure anymore if we even get to choose our friends." I bit my lip and looked at him. The frown on his face was replaced with an expression of curiosity and expectation. I hoped I was about to more than deliver. "I spoke with Cuddy and apparently nobody has moved into my office yet."

"The shine of my neediness…you're attracted to it like a moth to a flame," he dryly noted. "Is that why you're coming back? If it is I'm perfectly okay with that."

He was right but that wasn't why I was taking my job back. "I'm coming back because that road trip from hell we took was the most fun I've had since Amber died."

"Amber would have approved?"

"She would."

After a pause to let that thought sink in, he asked, "You hungry?"

"Sure."

I waited by the door while he grabbed his cane and jacket.

"Wilson."

"Yes?"

"My dad is dead," he muttered flatly.

"I know. You have my condolences."

"I'd rather have your sympathies."

"All right," I said, trying not shake my head as I held the door open for him. "You can have those too."

After a nice steak dinner and chocolate cake dessert, we ended up back at House's apartment where I helped him make a significant dent in his booze supply. We talked and laughed and cried and giggled and drained our glasses of scotch over and over again like there was no tomorrow. It was better than dragging him to the funeral since I didn't have to keep my eyes on the road or fish my keys out of the sewer.

"Admit it, you missed me," House slurred.

I had already admitted it a dozen times since we got to his place, but one more time hardly mattered. I probably wouldn't remember a damn thing I said by the next morning anyway. "You know I missed you."

"Goddamn right you did, you little bastard." He went to refill his glass and wound up slopping it all over the table instead. The amber-toned liquid began to drip on the floor, soft dripping noises as it spilled over the sides. "Oh…_fuck_."

"Whoa," I said, trying to hang on to my coherent shred of reason and took the bottle from his hands. "Save it for another day. I think we've had enough, buddy."

"I'm not driving anywhere, for crying out loud."

"No, but you're spilling crap everywhere." Through my alcohol fog I could see the dark sacks under his eyes. House was one drink away from passing out, falling on the floor, and landing right on his leg. "I'm a doctor and I'm telling you it's time to put the booze away and go to bed."

"Really?" he snorted. "Well, I'm a doctor too and I'm telling you your momma is so fat she has her own zip code."

"House, go to bed and sleep it off."

"Wilson…," he began, but turned his head too fast and nearly toppled over. "Shit…I need to go to bed."

He tried to stand up but couldn't. I could barely stand up myself, but found that we could more or less hold each other up and stumble down the hall to his bedroom. He landed on his bed with an "Oomph!" and brought me down with him. By sheer luck I missed landing directly on his right thigh. House untangled himself from me and managed to crawl up to the pillow and mutter, "My dad died…that just _sucks_" before passing out.

I was still sitting on the end of the bed. I wasn't getting off of it without passing out on the floor. The thought of sleeping there all night sort of turned me off, so I pulled myself over to the other pillow and passed out in my best friend's bed.


	6. Chapter 6

It took a solid minute to remember where I was and why I was there. It took another minute for my bleary eyes to focus. What little light that filtered into the room made everything look all shades of gray. Something was tickling my fingers. I looked down to see that House's hand was in mine. Then it all came back…well, some of it. We had gotten blind, stinking drunk and I had dragged him in here, then passed out maybe 30 seconds after he did. But I didn't remember if I had passed out holding his hand. It was his right hand, warm and rough with a callous from the cane. Strangely I didn't mind holding it. It was actually kind of nice. By some miracle my head wasn't pounding as hard as it could have been, though it did start swimming a little when I tried to sit up. Nothing a few aspirin couldn't fix. I groaned, probably louder than I realized as House opened his eyes and noticed something in his bed that shouldn't have been there.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he mumbled thickly.

"I passed out in here," I replied, carefully maneuvering my legs over the edge of the bed. It was about time for us to get up anyway. "So did you."

"When?"

"I don't remember."

"We've still got our clothes on," he noted with a trace of amusement. "So what the hell did we do last night, aside from not ripping them off in a frenzy of lust?"

"We were celebrating my triumphant return and mourning the death of your father."

"Mmmm…," House noised, taking a moment to try and dig up the memories. "How the hell did you end up in my bed?"

"I carried you in here, then chose between passing out on your floor or passing out on your bed. I chose the bed. I think I made the right choice in that regard."

"Is that so?"

"It's not like I meant to spend the night in here," I said, a little too defensively as I stood up. "Besides, if I had passed out on the floor, you'd probably end up tripping over me. Then you'd spend the day bitching at me for it and I'm not in the mood."

"So in your drunken stupor you were just thinking of me?" House sat up and rubbed his eyes. "That's so kind of you."

"I wasn't thinking of anything; I was just making something up to answer your question."

"Wilson, if you wanted to sleep in my bed all you had to do was ask."

I had the feeling he meant every word of it as he snickered to himself, and hopefully he didn't notice my jaw hit the ground as he stood up shaky legs before snagging his cane and steadying himself.

"I could really go for some macadamia nut pancakes," he said.

"Do you have the stuff to make them?" I answered quickly, hoping he wouldn't look over and notice that my mouth was still hanging open. "I doubt you do."

"You're right, I don't."

"Then you lose, don't you?"

"I suppose," he answered rather blithely, then yawned.

"What do you have to eat?"

"Some cereal, bread and peanut butter."

"Is that all?" I gaped.

"What does else does a single forty-something guy like yours truly need?"

"Something with some actual nutritional value would be nice." I yawned and absently scratched my head. "Like fruits and vegetables. Remember those?"

"They sound vaguely familiar."

I sighed and told him, "Go catch a shower and I'll see if there's anything edible in this place."

"Since you decided my bed was a nice to place to crash, care to join me in the shower before making breakfast?"

"Not today," I answered, hoping he would drop his weird homoerotic questions before my legs gave out.

He didn't. Limping to the door, he said, "You sure? You wash my back and I'll wash yours. Could be fun."

"Maybe later," I said. "I need some breakfast, then I need to go home and change."

House paused at the bedroom door. "Last chance. Going once…going twice…"

"No, thanks."

"Interesting," he mused with a Chesire cat grin.

"What is?"

"You didn't say no to my offer," he said, the grin getting wider. "You're not disgusted by the thought. You're not disgusted with me for having such thoughts. You're not disgusted with yourself for sleeping with another man in the same bed. How interesting. No, you're just distracting yourself with the whole breakfast routine, putting off the inevitable. Very interesting, indeed."

"What's inevitable?" I asked. My voice was weak. He picked right up on it.

"The real reason you're coming back to the hospital and to me. My offer still stands. Feel free to join me if you change your mind," he said before disappearing from the doorway, leaving me to listen to his cane tapping against the hardwood floor as he walked down the hall.


	7. Chapter 7

He went off to the bathroom and I heard the shower come on. I didn't join him; I was still a bit freaked out from his out-of-nowhere invitation. Plus I still wasn't sure if he was really expecting me to join him or if he was just yanking my chain for the hell of it. I'd find out in about ten minutes. Instead I went to the kitchen to see if there were enough edible things for the two of us. There was some not-quite-stale bread and Cheerios. No wonder House was so damn skinny, he couldn't be bothered with eating a portion or two that isn't delivered in thirty minutes or less.

The coffee was ready and the bread was in the toaster when he came limping to the table, looking as rumpled, scruffy, and handsome as ever. His eyes were still red and tired, but otherwise he seemed no worse for the wear from his late night booze-fest. No mourning for his father, at least not right now. He'd wait until I wasn't around. Until then he was focusing all his attention on me.

I brought him his coffee and took in the scent of soap and hot water that still surrounded him like fog. How come that had to smell so good on him? Why did I care if it did? But I did care and it was going to drive me up the wall for the rest of the day. If he was disappointed that I wasn't still damp and soapy as well, he hid it rather well.

"What did you do with the money I gave you?" House asked me.

"What money?" I puzzled, just as the toaster dinged.

"The money I threw into your apartment when you still hated my guts. What did you do with it?"

Ah, that money. Four hundred dollars he balled up and tossed onto my floor so he could talk to me for five minutes. If I remembered correctly I wound up shutting the door in his face. "I spent it," I replied nonchalantly, trying not to burn the hell out of my hands as I carefully maneuvered the toast onto a plate.

"On what?"

"New clothes and DVDs."

"Did you get some new sweater vests?"

"No, I got some new jeans and a jacket."

"That's nice," he said, and meant it. "I checked the mail for week, looking for an envelope with your handwriting on it and my crumpled money in it."

"I figured it was hazard pay." I brought the toast to the table, then poured us some cereal. "It was about time you paid for something for me, even if it was for me to listen to you for a few minutes. Besides, four hundred bucks is four hundred bucks. Who am I to stand between a fool and his money?"

"Indeed," he remarked, then nibbled on some toast. "I would have thrown a thousand at you, but I didn't have that much on me."

I blinked. "You really would have spent a thousand dollars just to talk to me for a few minutes, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I ask why?"

"The same reason I invited you to shower with me this morning," he replied with a devilish grin. "Because I wanted to be with you."

"Did you really want me in the shower with you?" I asked.

The devilish grin widened, nearly cracking his face open. "You tell me."

* * *

"What is all that?" House asked, looking suspiciously at all the bags in my hands.

"Groceries," I answered, and dragged the bags into the kitchen.

"For what?"

"For you. For me. For us."

He chuckled and said, "It's not my birthday. What's the _real_ occasion?"

"I like real food, you like real food. You won't buy or cook real food so that leaves me to buy it and cook it."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to. Don't you ever get tired of cereal and beer?"

"Sometimes."

"Exactly. I got stuff to make macadamia nut pancakes." I looked over at my shoulder at him and smiled. "I figure those are worth two thousand dollars easy."

"They are," he replied, grinning back.

"Great." I was beyond pleased with his comment. "It's kind of late to start cooking anything. How about some sandwiches and home fries tonight?"

"Sounds good to me."

He stood there and watched me put away the perishable items. At first I thought it was just because he didn't feel like helping me. His leg hurt, he was too tired. Excuses, excuses. Looking back I now know he had been waiting all day for the right moment to get me alone and corner me. Which was what he did. His bright blue eyes were fixed on me and blazing under the kitchen light.

"Did I scare you this morning?" he asked, after pinning me to the counter, knowing I couldn't struggle too hard without hurting him.

The damn shower thing. He had been serious about it and was never going to let me forget it. I nodded, wondering if he could hear my pounding heart, and confessed, "Yeah, you kind of surprised me with it."

"I suppose I did. But I didn't scare you and your charitable groceries and your pancakes away permanently. You did enjoy sleeping in my bed, didn't you."

"I passed out in your bed," I corrected him, hoping I didn't sound as nervous as I felt. "I remember waking up in it, not sleeping in it."

"Either way, I didn't hear any complaints from you."

"Because I don't have any."

"Damn right," he said, then pressed his mouth against mine. His mouth was rough and dry and scratchy, but my mind was too busy short-circuiting to really care. There was nothing really special about the kiss; it was short and to the point. But the man behind the kiss was what made the blood pound in my ears and my legs turn to Jell-O and my voice dry up. It was House kissing me, another man. He was kissing me because he wanted to. He was kissing me to let me know what I had missed by not taking up his offer that morning.

He let me catch my breath before asking, "Any complaints about that?"

"No," I gasped.

"I didn't think so," he said with an amused, knowing smirk. "No booze for you tonight, Wilson"

"Why not?"

"Because you're sleeping in my bed tonight, and you're going to remember every second of it."


	8. Chapter 8

The remains of our sandwiches and fries were strewn across the plates and said plates littered the coffee table, along with empty bottles of Pepsi. I was all but sitting on his lap; if it wasn't for his leg that's exactly where I would have been. But he seemed perfectly content with having me right there next to him, his arm around my waist and his chin resting on my shoulder as we watched a documentary about the Galapagos Islands. I tried to concentrate on the television but I couldn't help but think about how good it felt to have his hands on me.

"So how exactly did I go from hating your guts to being all but molested in your apartment?" I asked when a commercial came on.

"It's where you want to be," he answered, hitting the mute button. "That's what you wanted all along; you just couldn't admit it until now."

"You've analyzed the hell out of this, haven't you?"

"I had to do something while you weren't speaking to me."

"So what did you come up with?" I asked, honestly wanting to hear his answer.

He paused for a few beats before answering, "You were with Amber because you thought you couldn't be with me. So you had to settle for the next best thing. After she died you thought all you needed some space to protect yourself from the big bad world; unfortunately you chose the worst way possible to get that space. "

"I shouldn't have done that," I agreed with a huge sigh of regret. "I can't believe I actually did something so awful."

"Given the circumstances, I can.

"Well, that was supposed to be the end of it. I was going to wash my hands of you and start a fabulous new life."

"You know a good thing when you see it. When the opportunity presented itself there was no way you could turn it down. Your fabulous new life is here with me."

"I can see that."

"If you really wanted to stay away from me, Wilson, you shouldn't have answered the phone when my mother called."

I laughed softly and said, "Well, I did answer the damn phone and now I'm back here with you. I guess it was meant to be."

"You guessed right," House remarked, turning the sound back on as he nuzzled my neck.

* * *

His eyes were all over me as he watched me get undressed and into the sweats and t-shirt he so graciously let me borrow. From the corner of my eye I could see him grinning smugly; a grin only those close to him, like myself, could find endearing. He had won our little war after my utter and complete surrender to the fact that trying to severe all ties with him absolutely impossible. Here I was getting ready to sleep in his bed. Again. He had every right to gloat. And I had every reason to let him.

I climbed in and made myself comfortable, laying back on a big fluffy pillow. His smug grin dissolve into something different, something softer. Like for the first time in his life he was happy with himself and everything else around him.

"Do you have any idea what went through my mind when I woke up in the car and saw you there?" House began, shifting over to prop himself up on his elbow. "Do you even have a clue?"

I pretended to think it over before answering, "You were glad to see me?"

"That's a rather tame way of putting it."

"You were _really_ glad to see me?"

He gave a smoky chuckle, then dissolved right back into that softer something from before. "When you said you didn't care I knew you were lying. You did care…you always have. When I woke up and saw you…my one reason for living was coming back to me."

"I'm right here, House."

"I know," he said, gently brushing his hand against my cheek. A gentle gesture so _not_ House that he had to be doing it only because nobody else could see us.

"I'm not leaving anytime soon," I said.

"No, you're not."

"I'm here to stay."

"You're staying even if I have to chain you to the bed." He probably would if he thought he could get away with it.

I asked, "Where do we go from here?"

The smug grin returned. "Anywhere we want."

He kissed me again, much more slower and deliberate this time. Kissing a man was certainly different, and this particular man certainly wasn't soft and sweet-tasting like my wives or Amber had been. House's rough personality was matched by an equally rough exterior; his beard burned my chin and his calloused hands were all over my neck , then under my shirt. And I loved every second of it. Each new sensation led to another and another and I didn't want it to ever stop.

He broke away and I grunted in frustration. "_Wait_…," I protested. "What the hell are you stopping for?"

"Hey…I need to breathe too," he gasped before rolling over on his back and pulling me on top of him. "Do we really need the lights on for this?"

"No."

"I didn't think so," he said, then reached for the lamp. A soft snick, then the room was plunged into an inky blackness. But House and I found our way around the dark easily enough.


	9. Chapter 9

The click of the door closing woke me up. As I blinked and tried to get my bearings a soft golden glow appeared under the bedroom door. House was up and he would be out there for a while, watching TV and having a drink for an hour or so before coming back to bed. I rolled over to his side and reveled in the warmth he had left behind. House's bed. I was sleeping in House's bed and enjoying every last second of it. We had spent forever and a day necking--I could still feel the beard burn all over my face--before going to sleep and I had more than enjoyed that as well.

Only a few months ago I had told him we weren't friends anymore, that he had wrecked my life and I wasn't going to take his bullshit any longer.

I knew he wouldn't let me just walk away. I had expected him to show up at my new apartment. The money he so mindlessly tossed into my living room proved that he wasn't going to let me go without a knock-down, drag-out fight. That was a given. House, being the territorial bastard he was, could never let anything go as long as he thought there was a chance of getting it back. Except there was no fight. He didn't drag me back into his life kicking and screaming. Circumstances beyond our control brought us together, for good this time. I think House was just as surprised by that as I was. Fate, like God, works in mysterious ways. You can't fight it, all you can do is go with the flow and see where it takes you.

A low babble of voices soon filtered into the bedroom; the television was on. I could picture him sitting sideways on the sofa, the remote in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other. For a second I thought about getting up and joining him out there, but decided I was better off in here. Lord knows when he'd go back to bed--if he even decided to--and I needed to catch up on my sleep. I rolled back over to my side and pulled the blankets up to my chin. The television voices were the last thing I remembered.

* * *

"I missed those," he said, watching me pour some macadamia nut pancake batter into the pan.

"I'm sure you did," I remarked with sincerity. The man couldn't get enough of my cooking. Living on take-out and vending machine food while I was away must have been like living in one of the outer rings of hell for him, meal-wise. "More than you missed me?"

"Almost. The food needs someone to make it."

"True."

"And someone to cook it."

"Also true. It also needs someone to eat it."

"A match made in heaven," House said with a crooked grin.

With some rather deft skill, if I do say so myself, I flipped the pancakes over one-handed. "You're an atheist," I reminded him.

He took a sip of coffee and said, "You're Jewish, but I don't think you need me to point that out for you."

"No, you don't," I said, keeping an eye on the pancakes. If I burned them he was going to take it out of my hide.

A few minutes later his breakfast was ready. I handed over a huge stack and he all but ripped it out of my hands. Unable to stop myself from grinning like an idiot, I turned back to the stove and listened to him gobble down his food. Just like old times.

He waited until I brought my plate of pancakes to the table before asking, "So…how did you like sleeping in my bed?"

Thankfully I hadn't taken a bite of my breakfast yet or I would have choked. I wasn't sure if he was serious or not so I pretended that watching syrup ooze from the bottle was the most fascinating thing the world as House continued to chow down on his food while staring at me. "What do you mean?"

"You're not bitching and moaning," he began. "You made my favorite breakfast, smiling and chatting and flirting with me the whole time. You're not even complaining about the rather obvious whisker burns all over your face."

I looked up, feeling the blush creeping up my neck. "Is it that obvious?"

"Stevie Wonder could see it. Now answer my question."

No use trying to get him to change the subject. He wanted an answer and was going to bug me to death until he got one. "It was very nice," I replied stupidly.

House chuckled, enjoying the fact that I was squirming in my seat, and said, "Was that before or after I sucked your ribs up your neck?"

I took a few bites of my rapidly cooling pancakes and said, "I enjoyed making out with you--"

"I gathered that from the way you kept moaning my name."

"--and I enjoyed sleeping in your bed. There was plenty of room for both of us."

"It was nice and you enjoyed it." His eyes narrowed. "Is that all you have to say? Was it such a mind-blowing experience that you're suddenly at a loss for words?"

"What else is there to say?"

"You have plenty to say, Wilson. Now say it."

I dipped another forkful of pancakes into a lake of sticky syrup and told him, "I liked having someone with me when I woke up. I haven't had that in a while."

"Neither have I," he said, and finished his pancakes.


	10. Chapter 10

A few weeks passed and we settled into a sort of fuzzy domestic bliss. I made the meals and he chowed them down like every meal was going to be his last. He dirtied the dishes and I washed them. I woke up with his arms around me. We talked, we laughed, we kissed each other like two teenagers after the prom. If I didn't know any better I'd say he was enjoying every second of it. Was it perfect? No. What is? I liked him and he liked me and that was fine for now.

* * *

The sound of rattling keys, then the front door swung open. I took one look at his drawn, haggard face and asked, "Long day?"

It was nearly ten o'clock and he just now walked in the door. He nodded and limped over to the closet to hang up his jacket.

"You hungry? I can heat up some leftovers."

"Not right now."

"You sure? It'll take just a minute."

"I could use a drink," he muttered, walking past me to the kitchen.

His new case was driving him mad. A 16-year-old girl, emancipated and living on her own, with a laundry list of symptoms. House was convinced she was hiding something--aren't they all?--and was wracking his brain trying figure out what exactly she felt the need to hide at the expense of her health. Throw in some ranting and raving about Foreman from House and my day felt nearly as long as his. Nevermind that I got home four hours ago and had eaten dinner and dessert and had the dishes washed and put away.

I watched him pour himself a drink. "Your patient okay?"

"She's stable."

"That's good. You think it's cancer?"

"It's a strong possibility."

"Just let me know if you need some help. Why aren't you letting Foreman do the clinical trials?"

"He doesn't need my permission," House answered with a hint of a devilish grin.

"So why don't you tell him that?"

"He doesn't need me to tell him that. Foreman's a big boy. He doesn't need Daddy's approval for everything. When he finally figures that out he can do his damn clinical trials. Until then, I'm going to have fun watching him pout."

"What happens if I let Foreman in on the little mind game you're playing?" I asked.

He finished his drink and began to pour another. "You won't."

"How do you know that?"

"Because whatever mind games going on between Foreman and myself are none of your concern. Besides, you should know by now that sticking your nose where it doesn't belong will usually end up with your nose getting bloodied. We don't want that, do we?"

"No," I agreed, getting out a glass and filling it with his scotch. "Why can't you just make easy for Foreman and easier for you and just let him do the trials?"

"Life isn't that easy. Real life doesn't have a set of instructions. Medicine isn't laid out in nice little rows marked 'yes' and 'no'. Foreman should know that by now. But he doesn't so now he has to pay the price. He should stop spending so much time trying to prove he's not me and put a little more effort in actually trying to be a doctor." House smirked at me. "Admit it, you like watching me watching him pout."

"Not really," I answered truthfully. "You think this 'tough love' approach will work with Foreman?"

"There's no love lost between me and Foreman," House replied stoically. "When he gets tired of asking me, he's going to tell me. Until then I'm going to yank his chain because I can." He rubbed his bad thigh and grimaced. "I need to sit down."

I walked with him to the sofa and sank into the middle cushion, then watched him take his time sitting down. He flopped back and closed his eyes, letting out a big, heavy sigh as he did.

I raised an eyebrow and asked, "You okay?"

"Just tired."

I placed a hand on his shoulder and felt the results of his long, tiring day. He was tense, like he was ready to jump off the couch and run screaming out into the street.

Something had to be done about that.

Without a word I got up and gathered up some pillows. When I came back into the living room I could see him looking over in my direction with more than a little curiosity, his eyes glancing from me to the pillows to me and back again. His expression became even more puzzled when I dropped the pillows at his feet.

"Get on the floor," I ordered.

His mouth dropped open. After a few moments he said, "You do realize that a hardwood floor and my leg are a bad combination."

"That's what the pillows are for," I said, arranging them. "It's only for a little while and you've got plenty of pillows to put under your leg."

"But why am I supposed to get on the floor in the first place?"

"You're all tense and wound up; I'm going to help you relax."

"And I have to get on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Wilson--"

"Give me three minutes," I pleaded. "If you're uncomfortable and your leg starts to hurt, just say the word and I'll stop."

He considered for a few seconds, then inched his way over to the edge of the sofa. "Good grief," he muttered, gingerly lowering down to the pile of pillows, "and you all say that _I'm_ difficult."

I maneuvered my over so my legs were bracketed around him. His shoulders were just the right height and still as tense as piano wire, ready to snap at any moment. Just as I began to rub the back of his neck, he hunched his shoulders and made what could only be described as an irritated growl.

"Relax," I instructed, easing off a little. "Settle down and relax. This will be a lot easier if you do."

"You and your brilliant ideas," he grumbled, but he did ease his shoulders back.

I began again, rubbing slow circles along the back of his neck and over his shoulders. In only a few minutes I could feel the tensions flowing out and his muscles loosening up. The irritated growl grew into an appreciative hum of satisfaction. "Oh…._yeah_," he groaned with an obscene amount of lust. "Where the hell did you learn how to do this with your hands?"

"I was married three times, remember? It's amazing what nifty skills you can pick up by having three wives."

"I'm surprised these neck-rubs weren't part of your divorce settlements."

My neck-rubbing skills were one of the many things that led to my first divorce, but I decided House didn't need to know that. I just continued on, letting his occasional grunts and groans tell me all I needed to know. His troubles were put on the back burner. He was literally in my hands. It was just me and him. That's how it was going to stay. I was going to see to that.


	11. Chapter 11

Being with someone who was all rough edges like House certainly took some getting used to. Whereas Amber was all soft skin, clean and fresh clothes, lavender scented lotion and perfume. House can truly be called the opposite--rough, calloused skin, rumpled clothes, soap and water when he damn well felt like it, and a musky scent that's his and his alone. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about any of it. It's just that finding out the two people I've been closest to in my life are so different yet so alike…it's ridiculous to the point of being utterly and completely absurd. Personally I think Amber would have been horrified at the thought, but I could be wrong about that. She had surprised me more than a few times by laughing in the face of absurdity.

The floor finally proved to be too uncomfortable so I moved back over to the middle of the sofa and helped him back into his place. The pillows remained on the floor for the time being. They weren't hurting anything and we'd most certainly miss them if we ended up going to bed gathering them up first.

"Feel better?" I asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, tossing a genuine smile in my direction. The he reached out and pulled me over so we were sharing the same sofa cushion.

I looked into his eyes, seeing the light and dark highlights sparkling like gemstones. It was so easy to get lost in them…almost too easy. I forced myself to look away before they sucked me in completely.

"How's your mother doing?" I blurted out before I knew what the hell I was saying.

Thankfully he didn't call me out on it. He answered, "She's doing fine. All the nice ladies from her church are giving her the support she can handle. I called her this afternoon."

"You did?" I blinked in surprise.

"I did. I told her all about you and me."

After regaining the ability to breathe, I gasped out, "You _didn't_."

He smiled again and said, "Why not? She always thought you were cute and so did I. If she was thirty years younger she would have gone after you herself. Mom says hi, by the way."

"So…your mom isn't the least bit fazed by the fact that you're seeing another man."

House raised an eyebrow. "Should she be? Would you like to know what my mother said about you and me many years ago?"

"What?"

"She said the only times she ever saw me really and truly happy were the times I was with you. And I'll be damned if she wasn't right. My dad…well, my dad is doing backflips in his grave right now. I think this calls for a toast--to open-minded mothers and dead bastard fathers."

I didn't know what the hell say that, so I focused on the other part of his weird declaration. "We don't have any drinks."

"We will." Those blue eyes looked at me expectantly.

Of course. He couldn't carry the bottle and two glasses in here himself. He had had a few drinks for his dead bastard father already, what was one more? He was in his home. Who was I to tell him he couldn't?

I really wanted to tell him he couldn't. Toasting his dead father was in bad taste at the very least. But he was going have his drink with or without me. I may as well play along.

I got out the scotch and two glasses. To my surprise House poured the drinks while I walked around the table to my place on the sofa.

"To John House," he said, raising his glass. He didn't seem to notice that mine was still on the table. "The sight of the me and Wilson snuggling together would have put him his grave if he wasn't in it already, so the bastard is better off dead. Cheers." The words had barely left his mouth before he was slurping down his drink. I picked up mine and sipped at it before House drank that one, too.

"I take it you're over mourning your dad," I said.

"For the most part," he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"He was still your dad, House."

"He was my dad, but he was never a father to me."

"How many more of these so-called toasts are we going to have?"

"I'll probably have a few more. You don't have to have any if you don't want to."

"Thanks." I drained my drink and set the glass back on the table.

"You're welcome. But I was right."

I turned to him, puzzled. "About what."

"About you and me and dad. If he walked in the door right now he'd drop dead from a heart attack."

"You really think that?"

"No… I think he'd have a stroke. My mother thinks he'd have a heart attack." He chuckled to himself; I couldn't tell if he was laughing at his own joke or his mother's. Probably a little of both. "What would Amber think?"

I had been waiting for that question since he cornered me in the kitchen and kissed me. It's a question I had been asking myself since then, too. What would Amber do if she walked in the door right now and saw how cozy House and I had gotten over the last few weeks?

"Well…," I began, "I think she would be proud of the fact that I've been able to move on."

"And…?" He wasn't going to quit until he got an answer.

"And I think she'd throw up her hands and roll her eyes at the fact that I've moved on with you. She'd say "Whatever, James", and go shopping or something."

The absurdity of it all came crashing down on me again. I started giggling like a maniac. From the corner of my eye I could see House to hold his laughter. He wasn't going to last much longer before he had to bust a valve and let it all out.

"Yeah," I heard him say, "I do think Amber would be proud of you."


	12. Chapter 12

I usually didn't stay up into the wee hours of the morning and watch television with my wives or Amber because they always had those sappy chick flicks playing all night. If it was adapted from a Jane Austen novel, had clipped and proper English accents, or had Helena Bonham Carter, Hugh Grant or Kate Winslet in it, the women in my life could recite the damn things forwards, backwards and sideways. My third wife watched the Emma Thompson version of _Sense and Sensibility _about a hundred million times since she had a thing for the fellow who played Mr. Palmer.

House had a laundry list of recorded monster truck shows, wrestling and soaps left to watch. I didn't particularly care for any of them but anything was better than watching Gwyneth Paltrow struggle to breathe in a corset.

I dozed off to the sounds of playboy billionaires and conniving gold-diggers hopping in and out of every bed within a fifty mile radius. I really should have called it a night but House's arm was around me and it felt too nice to leave behind for a cold, lonely bed. Maybe I would stagger to bed in a little while if I got too tired or got sick of listening to corny soap dialogue such as "I will you destroy you, Laura". But I was comfortable and was more than pleased to be with House, even if I was half asleep.

"You still alive there, sport?" he asked, mercifully switching over to a movie that had blood, guts and car chases.

"Sort of," I mumbled against his shoulder.

"Why don't you go to bed?"

"I will later."

"Don't drool all over my shirt or I'm sending you the dry cleaning bill."

"You aren't exactly intimidating me with your empty threats." I snuggled a little closer into the rumpled shirt that hasn't seen anything but cold water and minimal detergent since it came into his possession and could have sworn I heard him chuckle.

His fingers began to thread through my hair, fingernails lightly scratching at my scalp. Good Lord, that felt so nice. A sign that House really does care about me. A silent way of acknowledging that he was aware of my wants and needs in our admittedly bizarre relationship. Or maybe House was repaying me for the shoulder rub from earlier or he was just felling particularly friendly at the moment. Whatever it was it felt really damn good and I didn't want him to stop.

"Mmmmm…," I noised without realizing until I heard his voice again.

"You like that?" A combination of amusement and salaciousness tinged his words. Even though my eyes were closed I could picture the wicked grin I knew was currently plastered across his face.

"It's okay," I replied with badly disguised disinterest and earned another chuckle.

Those musicians fingers continued to weave their way through my hair. A puff of his warm breath against my cheek, then another. He was no longer watching the movie. Something much more interesting had his attention. A shiver went up and down my spine and it wasn't because I was cold.

Sometimes the right thing to do was to surrender before the war even had a chance to start. I would have waved a white flag but I was too lazy to take off my shirt. Besides, in a few minutes I was pretty sure he would do that for me. His musky scent surrounded me like a thick fog and the room was getting hot.

"You're such a lousy liar, Wilson." The salaciousness in his voice had increased tenfold.

"I am?" I said, letting him play me like his piano. So close to him and wanting to be closer. It was so maddening, so glorious, and so like House to see how long he could drag it all out before my self control became a distant memory.

"Your need to be needed. It's so blindingly obvious. You like it when I have my arm around your shoulders or my fingers running through your hair because it means I like having you out here with me. After three divorces it's nice to have tangible proof that there's someone in the world who wants you, isn't it?"

I had to admit it was.

"It's nice to have proof that there's someone willing to overlook your worst flaws and embrace the best?"

It was more than nice. It was fantastic.

"That proof has an addictive quality to it, right? That's why you didn't want to go to bed. You needed your fix."

"I didn't want to be alone."

"I understand," he said with complete sincerity. "Why do you think I haven't gone to bed yet?"

"Because you're an insomniac?"

His hand reached under my chin and tilted my head up until our eyes met. Brown versus blue. Blue always won. That damn wicked grin of his was back, the one that made my legs turn to rubber and my core feel hollow and weightless. "Because I enjoyed being out here with you. My other fix."

A quick goodbye to my self control, then I crushed my mouth against his, savoring the fact that I was the only who could claim that wicked grin. A moan from the back of his throat…I felt it more than heard it. That moan was for me and because of me. I kissed him deeper as I felt his hands drift down and pull at my shirt, all but ripping the damn thing off. This was my favorite part, watching House's version of self control fade into the horizon, watching his desire for me make his breath shallow, his pupils dilate, and his ability to speak coherent sentences vanish.

"Time for bed," he gasped, and that was the last thing he said that didn't involve screaming my name at the top of his lungs.

We stumbled to the bedroom, a tangle of limbs, his hands all over me, our mouths barely breaking contact. He took my white shirt off of me and left it in a crumpled heap next to his blue one. No need to wave it in surrender tonight. He knew as well as I did that blue always won.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: This is the last chapter. Thanks to all my readers. You guys are the best!_

* * *

So I'm sharing a bed with another man. That man happens to be my best friend, my worst enemy, the man who knows how to push my buttons and push them well, and the one person on earth I would do anything and everything for. Looking back, it was a long, strange, twisted journey from us meeting at conference in Louisiana a million years ago to the two of us ending up naked in his bed. Nobody ever said these things had to make sense. After all I was the guy who declared our friendship over and done with a few months ago. Sayonara, House; do me a favor and rot in hell. But when he pulled me back in I certainly didn't see our relationship heading in this direction until House all but smacked me over the head with it. Then cornered me in the kitchen and kissed me. That last part was pretty damn nice…for him and for me.

His head was tucked under my chin, his hair coarse like bristles of a broom. This time he was in my arms, and I could hear and feel every long, drawn-out breath he took in his deep sleep. Carefully I brushed my hand up and down his chest, taking my time so I wouldn't wake him up. It was intoxicating, the heat and texture of his skin beneath my palm. Just having him next to me was more addictive than his damn Vicodin.

_You're mine, House. You're mine._

Thankfully my shirt sleeves can cover up the finger-shaped marks that were most likely covering my upper arms now. Finding out whether I had a hickey or two would have to wait until morning. I heard him sigh and smiled at that. The gentle sleeping House who sighed quietly in his sleep…a million miles away from his bruising kisses and grabby hands that practically tore my clothes off earlier.

House and me, lovers as well as friends. That concept was going to take some time to wrap my head around.

But I wanted this. I _needed_ this. I needed him to need me, because he needed someone here to keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn't go off the deep end once and for all. Amber went out of her way to make me see that she could take care of herself, getting downright snarky about it. That rubbed me wrong way…not that I ever said it to her face. House needed a steady, calming influence in his life and I want that influence to be me. Maybe I am just as desperate and insecure as he is, but I can at least admit it to myself. Someday I might be able to admit that to him. Only if he asked me first.

I had to loosen by grip on him as he turned over, grunting and mumbling a few nonsense words, now facing away from me. As soon as he settled back down my arms were around his chest again, holding on to him possessively. Because he's mine and mine alone. It was just House and me, and that's how it would stay from this day forward.

_You're mine, House. All mine._

Good God, I'm so fucking needy. I need to be careful or else I'll let it consume me whole.

"Wilson?"

He shifted back over, and I could hear a change in his breathing; short, fast breathes like something had scared him.

"Wilson…?"

"House." I reached up and smoothed down his hair with short, gentle strokes in hopes of keeping him calm. "It's okay, you just fell asleep."

"I did?"

"You're in your own bed, House. You're fine."

"I fell asleep with you?" His words came out thick and heavy like molasses as his breathing slowed down. Nothing had scared him. He wasn't waking up; he was still sleeping and not aware of a damn thing he was doing.

"Yes, with me."

"That's good," he muttered before throwing an arm over me and resting his head in the crook of me neck before he began snoring away in la-la land again.

My face split into an ear-to-ear grin. It could have lit up the whole damn room.

_You're mine, House, and you need me just as much as I need you._

--The End.


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